


Briarpatch

by triedunture



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anthony J Crowley's Big Victorian Depression Nap, Caretaking, Crowley's Century-Long Nap (Good Omens), Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Face-Fucking, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Masturbation, Other, Rape Fantasy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Sleep Sex, Somnophilia, Victorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-19 13:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20210842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: Crowley falls into a long sleep. Aziraphale tries to watch over him.





	Briarpatch

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授权翻译/translation】Briarpatch|荆棘路](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22212892) by [Echy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Echy/pseuds/Echy)

> See the end note for explanation of the tags (contains spoilers). If you know this is not for you or suspect it's not your thing, please don't read. It won't be everyone's cup of tea and that's okay!

London. 1800. 

Aziraphale placed the tasteful sign that read Open in the shop's front window, a pleased smile on his lips. He regarded the thing with a careful eye, then nudged it slightly to the right. There. Now everything was just perfect. 

He turned to take in the warm, clean coziness of his brand new bookshop. Gleaming tomes shown from their bookcases and in haphazard stacks on handsome tables—Aziraphale would get around to cataloging them all soon, surely. It felt strange but oh so lovely to have a place of his own. He'd taken up residences before, of course: a tower in Rome, a flat in Barcelona, and on one memorable occasion, a houseboat on the Yangtze River. Yet this was different. Aziraphale knew somehow that this little shop in Soho could be a comfortable home to him for a very, very long time. 

"The Principality Aziraphale," intoned a voice behind him. It was an American voice, and Aziraphale recognized the horrid affectation of its owner. 

He turned, forcing a new kind of smile to his face. "Gabriel." He nodded to the other archangel. "Michael. What a surprise."

"Why a bookshop, Aziraphale?" asked Michael, who had never quite gotten the hang of human niceties. "It seems an unnecessary diversion."

"Oh, no, not at all," Aziraphale said, flitting over to his shelves and touching the spines there with quiet reverence. "It's absolutely imperative that I keep a hand in. That is, when it comes to humanity. This shop gives me an opportunity not only to keep tabs on their greatest works but—" He fought to keep the cheerful grin on his lips. "People will come here to me. Lots of people. And I will be able to help them much more efficiently." 

In truth, Aziraphale didn't much care for the idea of people coming into his shop and touching his things. He supposed it was selfish of him, but he worshipped books terribly and feared a greasy fingerprint on his meticulous collection of Voltaire. But miracles won't pay the rent, especially not at London prices, and so Aziraphale supposed he must at least make the occasional gesture toward commerce. 

He watched his angelic executives closely. They looked doubtful. Gabriel poked at a bust of Ganymede that was holding up Aziraphale's display of ink pots. Aziraphale frowned at this, then caught sight of something through the shop window beyond. It was the absolute worst thing he could have possibly seen at that moment.

Crowley. Waving. Grinning like a madman. And hoisting a bouquet of flowers—red roses, _ really_?—along with a box wrapped in gold foil. 

Aziraphale froze. His eyes went wide. He attempted to communicate to Crowley using only his thoughts that he should go the Hell away. Aziraphale had never been able to converse mentally with anyone before, but he was a creature of faith and thought it should at least be tried. 

Crowley, of course, did not understand his panicked silence. He hefted the box and mouthed through the glass, "Chocolates!" 

Aziraphale's attention snapped back to the angels. "If you think this shop will aid you in your Heavenly mission," Michael was saying, "I suppose you might include the results of the experiment in your reports. You will still be expected to execute various missions abroad, of course."

"Can't have you getting too comfortable." Gabriel flashed his estate agent grin.

"Yes, of course." Aziraphale's eyes darted between the archangels and the window. Crowley, apparently frustrated that Aziraphale was not leaving his current conversation quickly enough, reached for the doorknob. 

"Well then—" Gabriel made as if to turn round.

"Don't!" cried Aziraphale, raising his hands. Crowley paused. 

So did the archangels, staring at him expectantly.

"Erm, don't…" Aziraphale thought hard. "Leave! Before taking a look at some magnificent editions I've just acquired." He took Michael and Gabriel by the shoulders and hustled them back towards a far shelf. 

"I don't really care about books," said Gabriel, which were among the most hurtful words Aziraphale could ever hear.

He persisted despite this. "Well, perhaps these will change your mind." Aziraphale glanced over his shoulder as he led them away.

Outside the window, Crowley was making a face as if to ask what his deal was. Aziraphale made a quick circle above his own head with his fingertip, sketching an invisible halo. Crowley's frown deepened but he did not flee despite Aziraphale's silent pleas to do so. Aziraphale ushered his unwelcome guests out of sight and prayed Crowley would have the good sense to escape.

After boring the archangels with his collection for as long as he could, Aziraphale bid them farewell. Thankfully they left via miraculous disappearance and were gone in an eyeblink. Aziraphale sagged in relief against a reading table as the front door opened, the bell above ringing its first notes. 

"What did those wankers want?" Crowley asked. His dandyish ensemble was unusual for its stark blacks, but fit him splendidly. He placed the box of chocolates on top of a stack of Shakespeare folios and tucked the flowers under one arm while working off his black gloves. 

"You!" Aziraphale shot upright. "What are you still doing here?" 

"Eh, finding something to put these in, I expect." Crowley shook the bouquet at him. "Congratulations, by the way. It's very you." He looked all round the shop. "Very...brown."

Tears of distress were threatening the corners of Aziraphale's eyes. His earthly body, awash in excess vim (adrenaline having not yet been discovered), could not handle seeing Crowley shaking roses at it. 

"Do you have any idea how close that was?" he demanded, pointing at the spot where Michael and Gabriel had been standing just moments ago. "Do you have any clue what would have happened—? Crowley, if you'd arrived just a tiny bit earlier—"

"It all worked out," Crowley drawled. "Now, do you own a vase?" He ducked his head to peer under the tables. "Assumed you'd have oodles of vases. I didn't think this through, did I?"

Aziraphale exploded. "You _ idiot_! You never think!" He picked up a _ Don Quixote _ and slammed it back down, causing Crowley to jump and look sharply at him. Aziraphale stared at him across the expanse of the shop. His hands, he noted, were shaking. He clasped them over his stomach to stop them. "If they had caught sight of you…." He choked on the words. 

The things they would do to Crowley if they knew. 

Crowley's lips thinned into a line. He glanced down at the flowers he still held and chucked them into the umbrella stand by the front door. "Right," he said, tugging his gloves back onto his fingers with jerky movements. "Understandable. You don't want me to jeopardize your cozy spot here, hm? Bosses find out about what we've been doing, you lose all your little freedoms." 

"Crowley—" Aziraphale deflated. He didn't give a toss about his own skin. Surely Crowley knew by now that—? He swallowed, straightened. What mattered was safety, Crowley's especially. "We've been very lax these last few hundred years or so. We simply must be more careful."

An exasperated noise fell from Crowley's mouth. "One close call. You're overreacting."

"I'm not." Aziraphale shook his head. There had been no warning today, and there would be no way of knowing when someone might check up on them next. "It's foolish to think we can go on like this."

Crowley froze, his spine, usually so sloped and wiggly, suddenly straight as a bolt. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying no more of these visits," Aziraphale said, flinging a hand back and forth between them. "No more popping by for a chat! No more—" His heart hammered in his hot chest. "No more dinners in fashionable restaurants, no more sharing a box at the opera. Good Lord, what would I even say if we were seen together like that? 'Oh, _ this _ demon? Haha, well, I had an extra ticket!' Preposterous."

"So that's it, then?" Crowley's voice was flat, steely. "No more of...any of that."

"For the time being," Aziraphale sighed, "just until the danger has passed." He watched Crowley's face closely, but it was difficult to gauge his reaction through the dark glasses. "It's not as if we won't see each other," he said, falsely bright. "The Arrangement will still be in place, of course."

"Of course," Crowley murmured. He looked off into a corner of the shop like he couldn't stand to look at Aziraphale.

Aziraphale wilted, then tried again. "We'll just have to be cautious when we do meet. Public places, crowds. If you must get a message to me, send it with a boy and I'll do the same. No names. Nothing that couldn't be explained as ordinary business."

"Fine." Crowley nodded to the corner. "If you say so."

"I do," Aziraphale said. He didn't like it, but if he admitted that to Crowley, he knew what would happen: Crowley would wheedle and cajole and eventually convince him that they could go on doing as they pleased and damn the consequences. It's how they'd arrived at their Arrangement in the first place. Aziraphale had to remain strong now. Even if it meant— 

He closed his eyes. When he opened them, he imagined a machine of steam and iron had replaced his heart. It was for the best.

"Now if you would please excuse me," he said in what he hoped was a cold, snippy voice, "I really must get on with it. I can't have the Demon Crowley loitering about when I'm meant to be welcoming my first customers." He turned to a display of first editions and pretended to re-organize them. He very much did not look at Crowley. "Good day." 

Crowley made bitten-off sound like he was about to lodge a protest, but in the end, he said nothing. Aziraphale shut his eyes as he heard the bell ring above the door, jumped when the door slammed shut. 

Later he discovered Crowley had left behind the chocolates. According to the label pasted inside the lid, they were all Aziraphale's favorites. Thick creams and luscious fruits, richly decorated works of art, but the angel found he had no appetite for them. He stuck them on a shelf in the back room where they sat for years and years, finally crumbling into dust in their gold-foil box. 

—

London. 1862.

Aziraphale stared at the scrap of paper in his hands. The two words scrawled there, harmless when taken separately, combined into a picture of horror in his mind. He looked sharply at Crowley. 

Things had been going according to plan these last few decades. He'd done everything right. They had maintained a discreet distance, kept their meetings brief and furtive. Their relationship had become one of mutual practicality. Another hundred years or so without incident and Aziraphale might be prepared to ask Crowley to dine with him again. But now….

Aziraphale had been so focused on keeping Crowley safe from threats Above and Below, he hadn't thought to keep him safe from himself. 

How do you keep a demon safe from himself?

They were both too angry and frightened for that discussion, and in the end, when Aziraphale stormed off, he couldn't see for the tears in his eyes and trampled straight into a hedge. 

He spent a day locked away in his shop, the sign in the window turned to Closed, fuming over Crowley's brashness. The cheek, thinking that Aziraphale would ever help him in this mad plan! Then the worry flooded in: though he'd allowed Crowley to think otherwise, Aziraphale knew that holy water wasn't exactly impossible to procure. It sloshed in baptismal fonts, filled dozens of little metal pots bolted just inside church doors. Why, one could fill any old milk bottle from the large jug they kept on tap next to the lit candles in the less discerning parishes. Anyone at all might give Crowley what he wanted now that Aziraphale had refused to do so. 

Perhaps someone had. 

Aziraphale stuck his head out the second story window and called for a boy. He sent the lad with a hastily written note to Crowley's Mayfair townhouse with instructions to deliver it only to Crowley himself. The missive was brief: _ Send word. Tell me you're safe. -A _

The boy returned an hour later with the paper still in hand, saying there was no answer at the address. 

It wasn't unusual for Crowley to be out, Aziraphale knew. The demon had always kept odd hours. And of course some business might have cropped up that necessitated travel. Yet he couldn't shake the horrible feeling that something was not right, so Aziraphale sent the boy back the next day. Same result. He tried again, waiting a few days or weeks, sending other boys who might be more diligent, more and more notes with no one to receive them. 

_ Where are you? Respond posthaste. -A _

_ What news? Reply immediately. -A _

_ Please. Just let me know you're alive. -A _

There was nothing more painful than the silence of not-knowing. Aziraphale waited for someone to tell him what was happening, and when it became clear that no one was going to, he donned his hat and gloves and set out for Mayfair.

Aziraphale had been to Crowley's home in Norfolk Street exactly twice—once to pick up a small item that would be, according to Crowley, indispensable in fomenting chaos following one of their coin flips (though how a monogrammed handkerchief left in a boudoir could ever do that was beyond Aziraphale) and again to give Crowley a short verbal report on his success. 

Both times, Aziraphale had not made it past the foyer. He'd caught only a glance of the very fashionably appointed sitting room off the main hall. All done in dark, muted colors, of course. Crowley, noticing his notice, had invited him to stay for a drink, but Aziraphale had politely declined. That had been sometime in the late 1790s.

Now Aziraphale wished he'd accepted. He wished for many things. Lord, he thought as he hurried through the gloomy streets, please let him be all right. He climbed the steps to number 17 and exercised the door knocker vigorously. 

There was no answer. Aziraphale knew that Crowley did not keep servants—didn't need them, for one thing; found them too likely to pry into his demonic affairs, for another—but surely if he'd left for a long trip, he'd have hired somebody to look after the place. Water the plants. Dust the furniture. 

"Crowley," Aziraphale hissed at the door, knocking again. "If you're in there, answer me!" 

Nothing. 

Aziraphale hesitated. For the last sixty-three years, he had been avoiding this very thing. He had stayed away from Crowley's abode and kept to himself. Arm's length had been his watchword. He had successfully cut down on his diet of Crowley and indulged in only a little taste at a time, never to excess. Now here he was, about to break into what was certainly a supernaturally locked house to ferret out the blasted demon.

"Well, in for a penny," Aziraphale sighed, and miracled his way through the door.

Inside, the house was silent and dark. There didn't appear to be so much as a candle to light the way. Aziraphale created a warm, white ball of glowing light so he could see where he was going. The foyer seemed untouched. Crowley's usual stick was in a stand by the door. His hat was sitting brim-up on a sidetable, black gloves stuffed inside it. 

It looked as if he had come home and then— What? Never left? 

With a sinking heart, Aziraphale hurried into the shadows of the townhouse. "Crowley?" he called. "Crowley, are you in?" 

The sitting room was empty, bottles of whiskey and port on the mantle, plants wilting in their pots. The pantry was bare. The dining room—empty chairs at a long, empty table. 

"Crowley!" Panic gripped Aziraphale in earnest now. He pounded up the stairs, his heavenly light trembling close behind. Doors were flung open, one after the other. Some rooms completely empty, some stuffed with ancient artifacts (no doubt stolen), one room holding nothing but furniture shrouded in white sheets. 

"Crowley, please, I will never forgive myself—" Aziraphale said, bursting through the final door. 

He found himself in a bedroom. Lavishly appointed in the latest style, expensively furnished. In the center, a four-poster bed stood draped in dark silk. And in the center of that bed, his fiery head upon the pillows, lay Crowley. 

"Oh," Aziraphale whispered, shaky as he approached. "Crowley?" 

There was no answer, but Aziraphale could see the bedclothes rise and fall with the easy cadence of Crowley's breathing. His eyes were closed in sleep, his face relaxed, brow unfurrowed, lips slightly parted. Open without the dark glasses to hide him. One hand was flung onto the pillow beside his head, fingers curled loose and still into his palm. He seemed as sweetly slack as any slumbering babe.

"You're—" Aziraphale nearly wept in relief. Crowley was here, whole, alive. The anger Aziraphale had been holding at bay surged back in now that the fear had retreated. "You're an absolute beast!" he cried, stalking toward the bed. "This whole time I thought— And here you are, napping! Ignoring my messages! Wake up, Crowley, wake up, I say!"

He grasped Crowley by the shoulder and gave him a good shake. Crowley's head waggled on the pillow, but otherwise he did not stir. 

"Stop this nonsense at once," said Aziraphale, shaking him harder. "Do you find this amusing? Allowing me to suffer, thinking you'd—? Oh, do wake up!" With a frustrated cry, Aziraphale slapped him across the face. Not too hard, of course, but with enough effort to surely wake a sleeping man.

But Crowley was not a man, and so he did not wake. His eyes shifted under their closed lids, but not a sliver of yellow-gold made an appearance. The red mark faded from his cheek. He turned his head into his pillow and slept on.

Aziraphale felt his face grow hot and his eyes, wet. "I thought you were gone forever," he said in the quiet of the bedroom. "I thought you had killed yourself." 

His knees could support him no longer, and so he collapsed to sit on the edge of the mattress, his head in his hands. He stayed like that for a long while. Long enough for the night to lighten to a pale grey dawn that filtered through the bedroom curtains. Long enough for Aziraphale to memorize the pace of Crowley's breathing, soft in sleep. 

It was worrisome, this deep sleep of Crowley's. Aziraphale tried everything he could think of to wake him, even pinching his arm and tugging on his hair, but there was no effect. Was he ill? Angels certainly couldn't be afflicted with sickness but perhaps demons were different. But who could he ask? It wasn't as if he could drag a human doctor to Crowley's bedside and insist on an examination. Mortal medicine would do no good. 

With a tired sigh, Aziraphale dragged a plush armchair close to Crowley's bedside and took up residence there. "Crowley," he said, hands clasped between his knees, "if you can hear me, and if you're able, please wake up." 

No reply. Despair swamped Aziraphale, a floodgate he had been keeping all his weight upon for decades cracking open. He felt more than ever the loss of his dining companion (even if Crowley rarely ate), his partner in attending the opera and the latest musicals. When was the last time he'd had a sip of wine? Even that had lost its appeal when he had no one with whom to split the bottle.

He missed Crowley terribly and could not seem to stop, even when Crowley was right there, sleeping inches away.

"These last few days," Aziraphale began, then stopped. "No, the last sixty-some years...they have been unbearable." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "Is that what you'd like to hear? Does it move you at all?" 

Crowley did not answer, only slept. Aziraphale crossed his arms on top of the mattress and pillowed his head there, weeping piteously until dawn came in full and the sounds of the city rose to a roar. 

It became a habit, coming to visit Crowley as he slept. 

Aziraphale couldn't spend every moment at his bedside, of course, but he managed to slip away from his bookshop or his angelic work quite often. He let himself into the Mayfair townhouse and did his best to keep the place in good shape. Crowley kept a number of exotic plants in terracotta pots—palms and pineapples and a passionflower vine that was trained up a folding screen of punched metal in the parlor—and Aziraphale did his best to tend to them (though he agonized over whether he was giving them too much water, or too little). There were also letters to collect at the front door, whether stuck through the mail slot or stuffed into the doorjamb. Rubbish, mostly, but Aziraphale kept them in a neat pile in the foyer for Crowley's future perusal. Besides, it wouldn't do to have curious humans wondering about the seemingly abandoned house. Upon finding a family of mice had taken up residence in a wall, Aziraphale gently transported them to what he hoped was a suitable field outside of Leeds. He opened the windows when the weather was fair and the interior, too stuffy. He shut the house up tight when the weather turned dreary. The pineapple plant in the sitting room bore fruit, which Aziraphale cut free when it ripened. He ate the juicy flesh in slices in Crowley's bedroom, praising Crowley for his plant's industriousness.

Sometimes Aziraphale was convinced Crowley could hear him, or refused to consider the possibility that he couldn't, and chatted away, a constant stream of one-sided conversation. He would inform Crowley about the weather, the latest news. He'd read the papers aloud. One day he found a copy of Washington Irving's _ Rip Van Winkle and Other Stories _ in Crowley's bedside drawer while he hunted for something more stimulating. 

"Were you reading this before you fell asleep, Crowley?" he asked without ever getting an answer. He turned the little book over in his hands. "I didn't think you went in for these American writers. Shall I read it to you now?"

Aziraphale began the tale well enough, but paused when he got to the part where the titular character ran off to escape his nagging wife. He kept at it, though, at least until the bit where Van Winkle awoke to find, to his joy, that the wife was long dead. Then Aziraphale clapped the book shut and slammed it back into its drawer.

"You hate that magical nonsense anyway," he muttered to Crowley, and refused to think about it any further. 

He told stories from memory for a bit. He recounted the tale of the Seven Sleepers in the cave in Ephesus, the pious soldiers, mere boys, slumbering in a pile like puppy dogs. All loose limbs and sweet sighing breaths, waiting to be awoken two hundred years hence. Protected by miracles as they dreamed.

Aziraphale always skipped the ending of that story, too. (The boys were fated to die after their awakening; it didn't seem fair.)

No matter. There were others. Aziraphale read aloud from a collection of The Brothers Grimm that he'd brought from the shop. Little Briar Rose, falling into her cursed sleep, waiting for something she never asked to receive. Aziraphale remembered the story's earlier versions. There had been a lot more cannibalism, hadn't there? 

"Perhaps you'd prefer that one," he said to Crowley, who shifted under the sheets with a low, wordless murmur but otherwise did nothing.

— 

London. 1879.

Aziraphale stopped by the townhouse one fine spring day, letting himself into Crowley's bedroom, doffing his hat and gloves with a smile. 

"Hello there, Crowley," he said, not expecting a response but giving his customary greeting just to be polite. "What lovely weather. I've just come from Curzon Street; I joined a club there, have I told you? I must have told you." He seated himself in his usual chair, adjusting the fall of his coat. "You'll never guess what the boys there have taught me." His eyes sparkled even as he thought about it. "Dancing! Really! You can't credit it, can you? Haha! It's true, though. Me, an angel. Dancing." 

Aziraphale watched Crowley's peaceful face for a moment. "You'd be ever so proud if you could see me," he said, softer. "Bucking the expected. I was very happy. At least for the length of a song." His smile slipped from his face. He watched Crowley in silence for a bit.

"Perhaps when you wake up," he said, "I could teach you the steps. It's such fun." He blushed to remember the kisses pressed to his warm cheek as part of the thing. All the boys taking their turn with him. Roger, the svelte banker with the charmingly crooked nose, keeping his lips at the corner of Aziraphale's mouth just a mite longer than necessary. 

Lovely boy. Hair just a shade too light, though. A pale strawberry where Aziraphale preferred coppery fire….

He shook his head and reached out, combing his fingers through Crowley's bright red locks. "It's getting rather long, isn't it?" he murmured. "Shall I comb it for you?" He retrieved the onyx-handled vanity set from Crowley's dressing table. He'd wielded it often of late. Crowley tended to stir and switch positions every few days, and now that his hair was to his shoulders again, it had a habit of getting tangled. 

Aziraphale sat on the lip of the bed and combed out the knots in Crowley's hair, strands slipping through his fingers like water set alight. 

It was difficult, in these moments, not to think about what Crowley might say if he happened to wake up. Aziraphale did not like to dwell on their last conversation, but as far as Crowley would be concerned, that would be the last thing he remembered. Aziraphale could only hope that the care he'd exhibited these last long years would ease the hurt Crowley might still feel. When Crowley woke up, Aziraphale could point to the plants, to Crowley's perfect hair, to the pile of papers in the foyer and say, _See?_ _I cared for you_. 

_ I've always cared for you. _

_ I still do_. 

Aziraphale finished combing with a small sigh. As he replaced the vanity set in its drawer, he wondered what else he might do to make Crowley's long sleep more comfortable. Leaning over the bed, Aziraphale brushed his fingertips to the open collar of Crowley's dove grey nightshirt. Crowley's thin chest rose and fell beneath the thin linen fabric.

The nightshirt was two decades old by now, wasn't it? Aziraphale considered exchanging it for a fresh one—not that Crowley needed a fresh one, since his clothing was demonically conjured and not affected by age or dirt. Might be nice, though. Crowley was so conscious of his dress, always outfitting himself in the latest styles. He'd be quite put out when he woke to find himself still wearing this dowdy old thing. 

"Time for a change, don't you think?" Aziraphale murmured, and set to work.

He tugged the bedclothes down until they were bunched in a pile at the foot of the bed, leaving Crowley's prone body sprawled in the center of the mattress, limbs akimbo. Aziraphale's gaze fell to Crowley's bare feet and their white, vulnerable ankles. How strange to see them now in an era when Crowley—everyone, really—kept themselves so modestly covered. 

"Oh," Aziraphale said, eyes fixed on Crowley's exposed skin. His fingers clenched at thin air. His breathing seemed rather labored. A small laugh died in his throat. "Isn't that odd? All of a sudden I feel so light-headed." 

Crowley shifted, a sleepy whisper on his lips, and turned onto his side facing Aziraphale. This had the unfortunate effect of inching up the hem of Crowley's nightshirt until is was nearly above his knees. His long, thin legs with their slim calves. Bared for all to see.

"Dear me!" Aziraphale's hand shot out and tugged the garment back into place. "Oh, Crowley. I'm sorry, I didn't—" His fingers skimmed along the ridge of Crowley's smooth shinbone. He jerked away with all due haste. "Apologies. Perhaps I shouldn't after all."

It was very difficult, maintaining the discipline required for one's thoughts to remain completely pure. Impossible, actually. Aziraphale had never gotten fully on board with those commandments: thou shalt not covet. How do you stop yourself from wanting? 

(Also it was rather unseemly, putting a neighbor's house on par with the neighbor's wife. Were neighbors' husbands fair game, then? Aziraphale had always wondered.)

The best anyone could do, Aziraphale reasoned, was to ignore such thoughts. To shove them squirming into the back room of his mind the way he shoved clutter into the back room of his bookshop. And if a thought tumbled out of the overstuffed room, Aziraphale supposed he should hasten to put it back where it belonged. 

And yet, a covetous thought was even now loose, running rampant there in Crowley's bedroom. _ You could have him_, it hissed, _ and no one would ever know, not even him_. 

"Good Lord," Aziraphale whispered. He pulled the bedclothes back into place over Crowley's tempting body and told himself very sternly that thinking such a thing was not just grossly impolite, it was counter to everything he was trying to do here. He was there to look after Crowley; this was his penance. The last thing he needed was a stray suggestion of how he might touch Crowley's pale, bare legs with his own hands—how he might spread them—how Crowley would open to him like—

"Right," he chided himself, "no more of that."

He sat down in his armchair and then, just to be safe, scooted it a foot away from the bed before settling again. 

"I'm sorry, my dear boy," he said to Crowley, for once hoping that his slumbering friend was not aware of the waking world. "I don't know what's come over me. The summer heat, I suppose." It was autumn, actually, and chilly. "A lot on my mind." Aziraphale only had one thing on his mind at the moment, and it was how Crowley's skin might taste. "Oh, Hell," he sighed. 

He fidgeted with the ring on his little finger. He so rarely thought about base desires, and was usually much better at keeping them separate from his thoughts regarding Crowley. It must be all the dancing. Yes, that was obviously the reason. All that gallivanting about, getting his body and mind worked up in strange ways. No wonder he was so susceptible to something as innocent as a peek at Crowley's ankles. 

Aziraphale straightened in his chair. He would just have to be very firm with himself going forward. If he could simply stop these visits, that would be ideal, but Crowley needed someone to watch over him. Aziraphale needed to get ahold of himself. He was an angel, after all. It shouldn't be so difficult. 

His gaze tripped back to Crowley laying in his wide bed. Oh, but he was lovely. Surely that wasn't too untoward to acknowledge? It was a mere fact, like the sun rising in the morning. Crowley's loveliness was an intrinsic as daylight. His sharp nose and pointed chin, his cheeks smattered with light freckles if Aziraphale cared to look closely—and he did care. He leaned closer to take stock of them, the innumerable little marks. There was one just on the bridge of Crowley's nose, darker than the others, that Aziraphale's fingertips were already reaching out to touch….

With a jolt, Aziraphale threw himself back in his chair, hands gripping the armrests until wood creaked. "Stop this," he told himself, hissed down at his own belly from whence these urges seemed to come. "You're not to—to sully him—yourself—any of it!" He cast a desperate eye over Crowley, who slept on without fail. 

This was all Crowley's fault. He must have known, somehow, that falling into a decades-long sleep would force Aziraphale to watch over him, which would turn into Aziraphale feeling very tender toward him once more, which would turn into—this dreadfully improper lust. 

"As if I would even know what to do with you," he said, forcing a laugh as he did so. "As if I have even the slightest idea what one might...get up to. Goodness." He clutched the armrests until his knuckles drained to white. 

If one were less inclined to sweetness and correct living, one might do all manner of things to Crowley in this state. He was quite helpless, wasn't he? It was rather smart of Aziraphale to keep an eye on him when put that way. He closed his eyes and thought of rough interlopers stealing into the townhouse, finding Crowley—pliable, vulnerable Crowley—and touching him. Drawing back the bedclothes—no, ripping them away. Then ripping away that thin nightshirt. Digging fingers into those red waves of soft hair, teeth biting into the tender spot where Crowley's neck met the slope of his shoulder. Aziraphale could hardly bear it.

"I would hate to see you treated so poorly," he murmured, opening his eyes to stare at Crowley's slack face. "Oh, my dear."

Perhaps it was best, Aziraphale considered, not to allow the back room of one's mind to overflow willy nilly. Perhaps one should release the sordid stuff bit by bit. Let it float into the ether. Ease the strain, the pressure. 

It was just thinking. It was just day-dreaming. What was the harm in that? 

His gaze trailed over Crowley once more, imagining what it would be like. He would undress Crowley for a start; he was so very curious. Had Crowley bothered to give his body a certain shape? And if so, what kind? Aziraphale's mouth flooded to think of the possibilities. He glanced at the line of that slim body beneath the sheets, remembering the way Crowley's legs had shifted against the mattress. Oh, to taste him, however he was formed. It would be bliss. 

Crowley gave a soft sound in his sleep and rolled over onto his stomach, his cheek pressed into his pillow, his lips parted pink on a sigh. Aziraphale stared with wide eyes. He could think of nothing else but what it might be like to clamor atop the bed and kneel between Crowley's wanton legs, opening him with a hand on each cheek. It was overwhelming, this urge to bury his face there, to lick and lave into Crowley. And Crowley, unresisting beneath him, sweet and sloppy from Aziraphale's eager mouth, doing nothing but making the smallest noises, the littlest spasms until he shook apart under the unending assault. 

The sight of those lips of his, so strangely still now when waking they were Crowley's living weapon—twisting and pouting and snarling. Aziraphale had a cock manifested for the occasion of his dance lessons (it had seemed only sporting to enter into the spirit of the thing) and what better home for it than Crowley's sleepy little mouth. He was boneless like this, like a doll, and Aziraphale could sit against the ornate headboard, pull Crowley's head to his lap, feed him his aching prick, massage it against that silent tongue. Tug at the root of it until he spilled into Crowley's mouth. Wipe any mess from his lips with a corner of the bedsheet. 

Or maybe he would leave such a mess upon Crowley's face. Mark along the bridge of his nose to match those freckles. Let it drip from that proud chin.

He could fuck Crowley—would have to, once he had a taste of him. Would grind him into the mattress and come off inside him again and again until he was sopping with it. Aziraphale would tuck him in before leaving, like a careless rider who puts away a horse wet and trembling. And then he could come back the next day and give Crowley a fresh load of his spill. He could keep Crowley here as his own receptacle, a place to put every terrible urge he'd ever felt. A vessel fit for drinking from for hours on end, and to fill anew. 

A sound struggled in Aziraphale's throat, a low whine of need. His previously ornamental cock was ruining the line of his trousers. A small dark stain was seeping through the wool beside his flies. He pressed the heel of his hand to the line of it and grimaced. 

"This is wrong," he said aloud. "Oh, why am I—?" Shame enveloped him in its cold shadow, and he fled the room, slamming the bedroom door shut and leaning heavily against it, his lungs heaving for air.

Aziraphale fumbled with his fastenings and pulled out his leaking prick, bringing himself off right there in Crowley's upstairs hallway. Listening to his friend's even breathing through the door. Biting down on a pained cry as he did so, hating himself and everything his mind was capable of thinking. 

He left Mayfair on unsteady legs and avoided visiting Crowley for a long while.

There is a big gulf between a sinful thought and a sinful action, of course. Aziraphale had not technically done anything as bad as all that unless you counted leaving a small mess on the hall rug. Yet he knew if God Herself came down from the sky and asked, "Where is the Goodness I gave you, Aziraphale?" he would have to respond, "At the moment? Not sure, really. Must have left it back at the shop." 

He wished Crowley would wake up already so the position of the most morally grey creature in London would be very much filled; then Aziraphale wouldn't be the one stumbling into it. 

Time passed, enough that the angel was convinced the day spent in Crowley's room desiring to debase his sleeping body had been just a hiccup. He'd never before been consumed with such awful thoughts, and he wouldn't let it happen again. Crowley had been asleep for so long that Aziraphale considered his loneliness must be playing tricks on him. Making him think things that no one should ever think—least of all a member of the Heavenly host. 

Still, he thought it best to give Crowley a wide berth. For both their sakes. 

—

London. 1881.

It was the worst winter Aziraphale could remember. And he'd seen them all.

London was buried in snowdrifts. Not a single train could make the journey into the city, and nothing could leave, so everything came to a frozen standstill. There was a very real danger of London running out of food before the snow melted. And the winds. 

There had never been such a gale tearing its way through the city's streets. 

Aziraphale was certain the storm was the work of demonic forces. It was just too unnatural. He shored up the bookshop with all his protections just in time; an overturned peddler's cart came hurtling toward his front window and would have shattered it if not for his angelic wards. Aziraphale peeked through a slit in the curtains. The snow showed no signs of stopping. The winds were vicious. It was like the end of the world out there.

"Crowley," he murmured, and grabbed his coat and muffler. 

Aziraphale was the only soul out in the storm. He trudged through the thick snow, head bowed, hat flying off into the sky within the first hundred yards. Aziraphale mourned it but did not turn back. He had to reach the townhouse; he had to make sure that Crowley was safe. When he reached Norfolk Street, he heard a dreadful crack and looked up in time to see a handful of chimney pots break off from their moorings and come crashing into the road. 

"Good Lord!" he cried, words lost in the howling wind. He dodged the falling debris and ran as fast as he was able to Crowley's door. 

Once inside, he discarded his ice-caked greatcoat and took the stairs two at a time. The whole house was shaking like a terrified houseplant. 

"Crowley!" He burst into the room, heart lurching at the sight of his friend still sleeping as he'd left him, though turned on his side now. Peaceful as anything. As if the city weren't falling around their ears. 

The shutters on Crowley's bedroom windows were torn open and making the most awful racket, so Aziraphale braved the blast of icy air as he leaned out the window to wrestle them closed. Roof tiles and chunks of facades seemed to be raining down with the snow now. Aziraphale watched in horror as a sizeable tree cracked in its middle and fell toward the townhouse. It was only with a powerful burst of miraculous effort that Aziraphale kept it from smashing through the parlor windows. 

"Oh, Crowley," he moaned as he secured the shutters with great effort. The house creaked violently in the wind. Aziraphale prayed that the roof held. He hurried to Crowley's bedside and clasped his slack hand in both of his. "I do wish you'd wake up," he said. "You'd know just what to do if you were here. How to stop this." 

Another loud bang resounded from outside, and Aziraphale ducked with a startled cry. He crawled onto the bed next to Crowley, clutching him tight, his frigid nose buried in the warmth of Crowley's throat. 

"I'm right here," he whispered. "Please, Crowley." His wings unfurled, bright glowing white in the blackness of the bedroom, and draped over Crowley's body. Aziraphale shivered, held him close. If the roof peeled away, if the whole city fell apart, he would stay here. Wrapped around Crowley. Keeping him from harm. 

(How can you keep someone safe while at the same time wanting to defile them? Aziraphale shut his eyes tight and tried not to think about it.)

Aziraphale rarely slept. He didn't see the appeal, really. If he needed to rest or recuperate from a trying day, he had books. He didn't like to waste time better spent reading. But that night, with the storm howling outside and Crowley breathing steadily in his arms, Aziraphale let his exhaustion overcome him, and he fell into a strange sleep.

He dreamed. 

In his dream, he awoke to find himself in the exact same spot in Crowley's bed except the sun was shining through the bedroom window and when he pulled back to look at Crowley, Crowley was staring back at him.

"Oh," Aziraphale choked out. "Oh, my dear. You're awake." He touched his fingertips to Crowley's smooth cheek. It was a dream, so he could do that. "I've missed your eyes. I haven't seen them in so very long."

Even dreaming, Aziraphale knew that was a step too far. He hesitated, hand retracting. Crowley's snake-like stare followed him. Unblinking gold and black. Beautiful, but dangerous. 

He did not speak. This worried Aziraphale. 

He frowned. "Crowley, are you all right? Say something." 

Crowley tilted his head a little, but kept his peace. A burning want shot through Aziraphale's stomach. He knew then just how much he'd missed Crowley's voice too. 

"Please," he said, "I must hear you."

The only answer he received from Crowley was a lowering of his lashes as he closed his eyes and went to sleep once more.

"No!" Aziraphale held him tighter, shook him by the shoulders. "No, you mustn't sleep any longer! Please, stay with me. I want you here. I should have told you, I should have made you understand—" He sobbed, pressing his forehead to Crowley's in agony. 

It was only then, in that strange way that dreams had, that Aziraphale realized that he was naked in Crowley's bed, and so was Crowley, and their bare bodies were pressed together beneath the sheets like lovers. Any alarm he felt at this was overcome by the tidal pull in his gut, that animal hiss of _ Yes, at last _.

"I shouldn't," Aziraphale panted against Crowley's shoulder. He knew he should tear himself away but as it sometimes is in dreams, he found he could not move except to roll his hips against Crowley. "I swore I wouldn't. This isn't how it should be." 

Yet Crowley's skin was so perfect and soft under his touch, and his hair so wonderful scented, and his face so beautifully relaxed, that Aziraphale felt his resolve crumble. He buried his face in the red waves, sank his fingers into it and grasped it by the handful, turned Crowley's head to the side so that he could suck marks to the side of his pale throat where his pulse hummed and tripped. He licked at the shell of Crowley's ear and watched as his skin prickled with sensation, the tight coin-copper of his nipples rising under Aziraphale's searching fingertips. He rolled them, flicked and tugged, felt Crowley's body melting against his own. 

He would come off like this, from nothing more than playing with Crowley's lax body like a tightly strung lyre. From rubbing his dribbling prick against the shelf of Crowley's hipbone. From the knowledge that Crowley was his, his, his alone and nothing could stop him from taking what was his—not God, not the Devil, not Crowley himself.

"Crowley," Aziraphale bit out, so close to his end that he could taste it like lightning in the back of his throat— 

He awoke with a start. 

The dark bedroom. The storm still raging outside. Crowley, asleep in his arms. His wings were wrapped tight over them both. His cock, which had not been in residence when he'd left the house that day, pulsing on its edge in his trousers. 

Aziraphale wriggled away from Crowley, cupping his traitor cock to keep it away from his flank, where it had been rutting viciously judging from the state of the bedclothes. 

"My God." Aziraphale dragged a shaking, sweaty palm down his face. He sat up a bit, wings folding away. He glanced down at Crowley, fearful that this time his sin would be found out, but the demon still slept like the dead. "I'm going mad," Aziraphale whispered into the shadows. "Without you to talk to, to be with—" He held his head in his hands. Tried to even out his breaths to match Crowley's. "Crowley, I am so sorry. I want things I shouldn't want." 

When he at last raised his head, tears spilled down his cheeks. "I know I should keep myself away from you, if this is how I act when you are senseless to my trespasses. But at the same time, I cannot abandon you. What am I to do?"

As usual, Crowley provided no answer. 

Aziraphale sighed. He thought about all the stories he'd read to Crowley while he slept, the parables and the fairy tales. Foolish hope tendriled in his chest. He watched Crowley for a moment, then lowered himself over the sleeping demon. 

"Please," he said, "I love you." And he pressed a kiss to Crowley's lips, chaste and sweet, and very much unreturned. 

Aziraphale pulled back, cheeks burning. Of course it hadn't worked. Had he really thought he could wake Crowley like that? His own Little Briar Rose, so lovely, covered in thorns, ready to delight and hurt Aziraphale in equal measure. Yet Aziraphale was no prince. And so Crowley slept on.

"I shall leave you here," Aziraphale said. "Selfish of me not to do it sooner. I'll work some miracles before I go. Make sure you'll be safe." He ducked his head, reached out to touch Crowley's long red hair, then thought better of it and withdrew. 

He collected his hat and gloves, which he'd apparently thrown to the carpet in his rush, and stood in the bedroom doorway, taking in the sight of Crowley slumbering one last time. 

"Sleep well, my dear," he said quietly, and went out into the cold. 

—

London. 1901.

Amid the rumpled bedclothes, a languid body stirred. 

"Angel?" Crowley murmured. He sat up blinking, wiping his hands across his face. He looked around and saw that he was alone in a room coated in dust. Outside his window, a new century was unfolding. He could smell it.

"I've just had the strangest dream," he said, and rose to meet it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Tag spoilers: In this story Aziraphale fantasizes/dreams about non-consensual sex involving Crowley. The suicide mention refers to Aziraphale and Crowley's fight over his use of holy water.
> 
> If you enjoyed this story, welcome to the filth portion of my descent : )


End file.
